


Give A Little Love

by Bad Samaritan (quodpersortem)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Musician, Bottom Dean, Drama, Fast Food, Guitarist Castiel, Human Castiel, Kinky piano sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Angst, Musicians, Pianist Dean, Slow Build, Top Castiel, character build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/Bad%20Samaritan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kinkmeme prompt: </p><p>  <i>Inspired by <a href="http://warmsthejacklesofmyheart.tumblr.com/post/61008524933/spainkitty-mishassweetestkittles-ssjdebusk">these</a> <a href="http://sensitivehandsomeactionman.tumblr.com/post/61309666207/saw-this-fun-post-about-jensen-playing-piano-and">gifsets</a>. Dean Smith is a classically-trained pianist studying for his music degree. He hasn't got time for the college's social scene- he's got scholarships he needs to work for, practice to get on with- and he certainly doesn't have time for Castiel, the hippie-ish slacker genius of a guitarist in his class.</i></p><p>  <i>Which is a shame, because this module? Involves working in pairs. And the professor just paired them up.</i></p><p>The Dean Smith vs Winchester is all explained within the story, what you should know is that it is Cas/Dean. It is NOT a threesome or two different Deans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give A Little Love

**Author's Note:**

> As for Cas, he is based on a figure hovering between normal Cas and endverse Cas. :)

Cas walks into the classroom nearly ten minutes late. The teacher doesn’t even reprimand him for it anymore—not since she figured out that he’s not going to give a shit, and that he’s a brilliant guitarist regardless of missing classes every now and then. He does spend plenty of time practicing what is important, thank you very much.

Someone huffs out a dismayed breath, and Cas does not have to look up to know that it is Dean Smith.

Dean Smith is every teacher’s favorite. Almost every pupil’s as well, actually. Cas, however, can’t stand him. That says a lot about Dean, about Cas as well because he’s usually one of those people who is fine with everyone going about their own business. But there’s something so aggravating about Dean, so annoyingly stuck-up and know-it-all, with his ironed dress shirts and black pants that he wears to school, that make Cas want to throw up.

Throw up, and preferably all over aforementioned shirts that come in all colors of a box of crayons. He idly wonders when the next party will be—if Dean will show up this time, because it would be the perfect opportunity to get wasted and execute his plan. As it is, though, Dean appears to stay away from all _fun_ social activities, and Cas hardly ever runs into him at school, outside of their few shared classes.

And so the day drags on, with most classes actually being interesting and mercifully Dean-free because of their different majors. 

However, the last class of the day is an intro to writing modern music, which includes pop and rock, and Dean’s in it as well. It’s stupidly boring—all shit Cas has done before—but he needs it for his curriculum. Why Dean is taking it only now, is far beyond him. The guy is in his third year and he studies T&C, for fuck’s sake.

Cas manages to sit as far from Dean as possible, in the hope that their teacher isn’t going to pair them up for the new assignment. They’re going to have to write an arrangement in pairs, with two different instruments, and Cas has a couple of ideas he’d like to work out. Preferably with Ash, because the guy knows what he’s doing on his Hammond organ and he’s nice to hang out with, or perhaps with Meg because she has a better voice than him, and with her drumming it’d just be really _cool_.

Maybe they could do a duet, he thinks as he starts doodling. Maybe he should ask the teacher, put on his puppy eyes and see if that works on Ms. Milton. He scribbles down a few lyrics, thinks of chords and a rhythm that might go with them, and by then they’re halfway through her class.

“Okay!” she says, “Listen up. I’m going to read this list, the person you are paired up with is the person you _will_ do the project with. When you find a job, you’ll have to work with-“ Cas zooms out again, because this is where she rants about their future professional lives. Cas is well-set on becoming a good musician, rich enough to be able to demand at least some respect. 

He’s not too worried when she starts to read their names—except by the time she’s almost done, she hasn’t read Cas’ yet, and he’s pretty sure that Dean hasn’t been paired with someone either. She knows about his dislike for the guy, too, because they nearly got in a fight during the first day of the semester and she’d had to break it up.

“Cas Novak and Dean Smith,” Ms. Milton says then, and Cas’ jaw drops.

“Miss-“ he tries to interrupt her, and he can see Dean crossing his arms in protest and shoot a glare at him, but she simply keeps on reading.

He stays after class, and Dean must notice because he hurries off with his stuck-up friends.

“Miss,” he says, walking towards the desk, where she’s gathering her notes. “I can’t work with Dean Smith.”

“Why not?” She smiles, and if she’d been his age, Cas would’ve described it as ‘cheeky’.

“Because I hate him, and he hates me, and we’ll end up murdering each other instead of finishing the project,” he complains, and when Milton only smiles and shakes her head, he presses on. “Oh, come on! If we were professionals, we’d just avoid each other-“

“If you were beginning professional musicians, who were ready with their education, you would not complain to me about your partnership, mister Novak. You would suck it up and get together to see how you can channel these hostile feelings into a song.” She’s still aggravatingly calm, and Cas groans as he follows her out of the room.

“I can’t do it, he won’t even talk to me,” he tells her.

“So e-mail him instead,” Ms. Milton shrugs happily. “It’s not my problem, you have to deal with this yourself.”

“Can I at least switch with-“

“No switching, I want to see both your and Dean’s name on the sheet and CD when you get them to me,” she says. “I don’t care how you do that, by bribing him with food or money, or by playing the piano by yourself—although I am sure I _will_ notice if you do—but you will have to turn it in.”

She looks at him with an air of finality before walking away.

Cas decides that Ms. Milton definitely is one of the teachers who like Dean. How surprising.

_Not._

* * *

“Hey!” Cas hears a deep voice shout at him as he passes through the auditorium the next day. He turns around and sees Dean approach him.

“Hello,” he says cautiously, because he wasn’t kidding when he told his teacher that they hate each other. Hippies and high-end suits just don’t mix well.

“When are we going to write our ridiculous hippy arrangement?” he asks Cas and Cas’ eyes almost pop out of their sockets.

“It’s—Aren’t you three years into music history by now? You should know that-“

“Come on, relax,” Dean tells him, obviously a little shaken by Cas’ response. “I was kidding. Kinda.”

“Do you even listen to modern music?” Cas says as he starts to walk to one of the rooms with padded walls. Students use them to experiment or practice, especially when they play drums. And Cas, pent-up with stress from having to work with Dean, would really like to rock it out on an electric guitar.

Dean follows him inside, which means that he can’t turn the music up too far or Dean might file a complaint. Health concerns, or something.

“No, really,” he tells Cas. “I need my points.”

Cas rolls his eyes—he does too, after all. He’d only taken this subject in particular because his councilor and just about every teacher at the school wants him to pass, and he doesn’t want to study too hard for something he already knows. At least the intro course to modern writing ties in neatly with his major in Performance, and he’s guessing that Dean took it because it sounds easy when you do Theory and Composition.

“You don’t need my help for that,” he tells Dean, but when he wants to start playing Dean closes his fingers over the neck of his guitar.

“No, I do,” Dean tells him. “I can’t write for shit.”

Cas raises his eyebrows, about to make a comment on how he studies _Composition_ when Dean rolls his eyes—an unexpected glimpse of humanity, Cas snorts to himself.

“I can compose. I can’t write a modern song.”

“Do you even listen to modern music?” Cas frowns, and the way Dean bites his lip tells him enough. He’s heard the obligatory albums, no doubt, he’s written his essays and reviews, but he probably didn’t enjoy it too much.

“Listen, I guess we can get together tomorrow, but only if you have listened to Led Zeppelin IV.”  
“What’s that?” Dean asks, obviously drawing a blank. Cas gets up, puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and guides him to the door.

“It’s the name of an album. Search for Led Zeppelin, that’s also the band by the way, and then a four in roman numerals. Listen to it. And now fuck off, because I wanna play.”

The steady pressure of strings under his fingers has never felt so sweet, Cas thinks as he starts to play some pentatonic scales to warm up.

* * *

 

The next day, he waits for Dean by the piano that Ash had pointed out at him. Ash, as it turns out, is a mutual friend, and Cas isn’t sure if this lowers his esteem of Ash or ups his esteem of Dean. Probably the first, even though most people look at Dean like they’re in love with him.

“I spent an hour listening to screaming and shouting,” Dean’s voice suddenly comes from nowhere, and Cas cracks open his eye.

“That doesn’t answer whether you liked it or not, though.”

Dean shrugs and looks at the piano, and Cas can see his fingers twitch. That makes him smile, at least—he knows the feeling of sitting cooped up in a theory room for too long, itching to get back to his guitars.

Cas closes the door while Dean sits at the piano, and gets his guitar from its case and fishes a notebook from his bag. 

“Okay, so,” he says, but Dean doesn’t listen anymore. His fingers are trailing along the keys, finding the right position before he starts to play.

Cas hasn’t actually heard Dean play before, because he doesn’t go to the concerts their college organizes, and it’s a little jarring to realize that none of the praise was exaggerated. 

His hands move along the keys like they’re feather light, even though Cas knows that’s not true. He doesn’t even have sheet music in front of him—and all right, Cas can play like that on his guitar, but the piano is an entirely different instrument.

The piece fills up the room, makes Cas’ insides vibrate with something warm and pleasant and he’s still watching Dean’s hands, strong and agile. The contrast between the flesh-tone of his skin and the ivory of the piano keys is stark in the brightly lit room, and Cas can only stand in the middle of the room and listen, his notes long forgotten.

It takes several minutes, maybe seven, before Dean is done playing, and Cas is pretty sure that he’s staring at Dean because Dean smirks at him.

“I’m good, aren’t I?”

“Fuck you,” Cas glowers, but something of a compliment must shine through because Dean’s smile turns warmer, more genuine.

* * *

As it turns out, Dean’s awful at writing pop music. If Cas could put it in a balance, he’d say that his epic skill at playing the piano would only barely outweigh his absolutely disastrous feeling for lyrics and rhythm. 

Cas sighs and rubs his fingers against his eyes while he says, “We should probably call it a day.”

Dean nods, stretching his arms while he’s still seated. His shirt rucks up a little, showing just a slither of skin, and Cas quickly averts his eyes. 

“We can meet up again, tomorrow or something.”

Cas nods solemnly. He wasn’t going to do this, but Dean’s writing is so appalling that he can’t simply leave it to him to figure out and his own piano skills are hardly any better. They’re going to have to write it as a duet between their instruments, because he’s also learnt that Dean sucks at singing—and that for a guy who must’ve had at least _some_ lessons. Cas _can_ sing, so that will have to do, no matter how hard Dean frowned at his Cohen-esque style.

“You should listen to some more classic rock,” he tells Dean. “Pink Floyd, you might like that. Or Noah and the Whale. They mightn’t have a piano but they have a violin.”

Dean bursts out laughing. “That doesn’t make it classical music.”

“No, but it’s closer to what your ear is trained for,” Cas resists the urge to stick out his tongue. 

“I never said I didn’t like it,” Dean says after a short moment of silence.

Cas frowns as he looks at him again. Dean is still smiling at him, his gaze calm and warm, and it is a little unsettling. Maybe Dean doesn’t hate him as much as he’d thought, then.

“Besides, I know Pink Floyd,” Dean grins then. “And I knew Ramble On. Dad used to play it.”

“So, the screaming wasn’t actually so bad,” Cas says. “Well, in that case, I’ll have to think of something else to make you listen to.” Maybe some Leonard Cohen, then. What with all the singing he’s gonna have to do, and Dean probably not knowing that it’s _okay_ not to reach that high C.

“Only if you’ll listen to classical music in return,” Dean says, and this time it’s a little cheeky.  
Cas pulls a face.

They do exchange their phone numbers then, which feels almost a little too personal if Cas is honest, but there’s no other way they can contact each other conveniently. He does have a computer, and Dean no doubt owns one as well, but between classes, homework, practice and—in Cas’ case—friends, there’s just not a lot of time left for social media. 

By the time he gets on his bus—Dean has his own car, but that’s no surprise—it’s getting dark outside. He puts his guitar in the seat next to him, and rolls his eyes as he realizes that the only person playing an instrument today was Dean.

That just proves how much of an asshole he secretly is, Cas thinks to himself. If he doesn’t quite believe that anymore, well, he better start believing it again. A set of good looks and some talent at piano playing can’t fool him, Cas decides.

* * *

That night, Cas decides it’s time for some relaxation. After he’s eaten and had something to drink, he goes into his bedroom and undresses. He takes a quick look into his drawer with toys—there aren’t many, and they’re mostly holes to fuck without the usually necessary commitment, but he’s not in the mood today.

Instead he settles down on his bed with the bottle of lube in his hand. He spreads his legs and spends some time stroking himself, keeping his eyes closed in the near-dark of his room. His sheets are soft under his back, and his hands are enticing enough that it doesn’t take long before he starts getting hard.

Cas keeps up the teasing a little longer, ignoring the hot stretch of his skin in favor of dipping his cool fingers between his legs. He presses down against the soft skin he finds, before drawing them up, cupping his balls and then squeezing gently, rolling them in his hand. Finally, he gets to his erection, now fully hard, and puts some lube right on the head.

He gasps a little at the cold, but it warms within a few strokes of his hand. He keeps his motions fluid and easy, not giving himself all the pressure he really wants. Cas only uses a couple of fingers at first, but he’s always been the kind of guy who prefers a complete hand. 

Hand, he thinks, gasps again, curling all of his fingers around his flesh. In an instant, he thinks of Dean’s hands moving along the piano. Dean must jerk himself off, Cas realizes, and with those hands it must feel fantastic. His fingers are strong—Cas has met many pianists by now. Still, Dean’s fingers aren’t short or stubby, the way a lot of other piano players’ are, they’re long and elegant and they’d curve beautifully over his own cock.

Hell, they’d move perfectly over Cas’ cock. He squeezes his eyes closed, and up until now he’d been vaguely aware that he should fight the urge to jerk off to the memory of Dean’s hands, but he gives up on it. He’s getting warmer and warmer, and his thoughts are fuzzy, and he knows that he’ll regret it later but then he’s embracing his fantasies.

Cas spreads his legs a little wider, places his free hand over his balls as he wonders what Dean would do. He’s good—great with his hands, there’s no doubt about that, and being alone so often must mean that he masturbates often. Cas groans at the thought of those fingers splattered with come, Dean’s face flushed.

Dean’s face flushed in front of him, mouth opened as he fists Cas’ cock. His movements are slow, they know exactly where Cas likes to be touched so Cas changes his rhythm, until it’s a little off. That’s better. 

Dean with his mouth opened and his eyes half-lid, shining in the light on Cas’ night table or maybe the sun, and Cas’ hand moves on Dean’s cock—and it feels like his own but he likes to think that it’s fatter, stubbier, able to fill his mouth in a way that his own fingers can’t. His fingers taste of the musty smell of sex, and he pretends that it’s Dean’s scent.

And then he goes back to Dean’s fingers, Dean moaning, Dean stroking his hand so fast now that Cas can barely bear it, Dean groaning and the idea that this is the classical kid, debauched and falling apart in front of Cas, the green of his eyes locked on Cas’, that’s what makes Cas come undone eventually.

Afterwards, he stares up at his ceiling, his come cooling and drying on his stomach.

Finally, he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to burn the image from his mind because he doesn’t want this. A pretty face doesn’t mean that Dean’s a nice guy. He and Cas have been at odds since their introduction in the first year.

That he gets a smear of semen on his cheek, his own nevertheless, doesn’t even bother Cas. Sure, it’s been a while—he has his toys now after all—but it’s not like it’s gross. Or at least, as gross as most people seem to make it out to be.

Whatever.

The shower he takes is warm, and when it gets too comfortable, he turns it to cold.

* * *

The next day, Cas finds Dean and says, “We should practice over at my place instead.”

“Why,” Dean frowns. 

Cas pretends he doesn’t feel a little intimidated by Dean having changed his posture—he’s wider than Cas remembered (oh god, he shouldn’t think about last night). Taller too, when he stands up like this. Cas swallows. “I’d like to have dinner at dinner time for once, rather than sometime nearer to midnight.”

“We can get dinner here, can’t we?” Dean says, reluctantly, because eating at school means eating bad food.

“We really can’t,” he tells Dean. “I’m not going to order pizza here.”

That seems to push Dean in the right direction, because he bites on his lip and looks at the door. “I don’t eat pizza,” he says then, which, _lame_.

“I have my notes at home, as well. And more guitars.”

“But I wouldn’t be able to do anything, then,” Dean responds.

“I do have a keyboard, too,” Cas tells him with a generous pat on Dean’s shoulder. It seems to jest him, which is great. He’s gonna do that more often, while he does _not_ think about Dean’s hands. Or even why he’s inviting Dean over to his place, because it’s likely a bad idea although it’s a matter of fact that Cas will be far more comfortable and thus creative there. “Probably not as good as your grand piano or whatever you keep at home, but it suits the song better anyway.”

“Can you even play keyboard?” Dean squints at Cas and Cas grins.

“I can play Yellow Submarine, so that’s why I’m making you come over.”

“Oh screw you,” Dean curses, catching himself and rolling his eyes. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll come over tonight, but I can’t go home late.”

“Early class tomorrow?” Cas asks, but Dean shakes his head.

“No, practice.”

“Ah,” Cas says, intelligently, because he refuses to think of himself any other way.

* * *

He sits next to Dean in his car. It’s massive. Like, really, really big. It’s almost as big as his studio, which is a little absurd in fact. It’s also a classic model, which makes him imagine that he’s some kind of rock star—although technically, he supposes Dean is, since he’s the owner. All he’s missing is the jeans and leather jacket. Anyway, it smells nice and homey and it’s all too easy to relax back in the leather seat.

“Why do you drive this car?” he asks, opening the glove compartment. 

He thinks that Dean’s nostrils briefly flare, possibly anger at Cas’ random touching Dean’s things, but then he calms down again. “It was my dad’s, he drove it and when I turned eighteen he gave it to me.”

“It’s like a ship,” Cas says in wonderment and Dean sighs.

“Look, I’m fine with going over to your place. But let’s not pretend to be friends, okay? We’re doing this project together, and you are spending time we could have been working on our project on talking about useless stuff like cars.”

“Cars are not useless,” Cas interjects but Dean shakes his head.

“You know what I mean. Just—Talk me through your plans for the song.”

Cas groans as he starts to dig into his backpack, because his notebook is in there. Somewhere.

* * *

Dean doesn’t comment on the incense Cas puts on, which surprises Cas. He also doesn’t say anything about the haphazard way that his guitars stand propped up against the wall. 

Instead he looks around, making Cas feel a little ashamed, because it’s not like he cleans all that often. He pulls the keyboard from under his bed, which also serves as his couch. There’s a desk chair shoved in the other corner, missing the arm rests because he likes his arms to be free when he’s playing and the bed’s too low to sit on comfortably. Now it’s Dean who sits down on it, frowning a little when it creaks.

“It does that,” Cas tells him, as he bends down again to find the stand for the keyboard.

Along with it, huge dust bunnies come out of hiding, and Cas frowns as he picks them up and takes them over to the trash can. 

Next up is music. Dean’s already putting up the keyboard—good for him, because Cas has been in a veto with that thing since he bought it—so Cas walks to his modest stereo installation (his biggest investment out of everything in his room) and puts on Mumford and Sons.

As soon as the banjos come in, Dean frowns at him. “What is this?”

“Mumford and Sons,” Cas tells him. “You’ve never heard of them, so I’m judging you.” 

“I’m not judging you for not being able to play Moonlight Sonata-“

“I don’t even like Moonlight Sonata,” Cas tells him, and it’s true. He has an irrational hate for the damn piece.

“Even better, I’m not judging you for that, so why would you be judging me for the kind of music I do or don’t listen to?”

“Fine,” Cas grumps. “But I’m not ordering you a salad. I’m going to order a pizza and that’s it. You’re not a vegetarian, I hope?”

Dean shakes his head, and with that, Cas orders the biggest pizza with meat on the menu.

In the time the pizza takes to get to the apartment, though, he unplugs his laptop charger and plugs in the keyboard’s instead. He lets Mumford and Sons play even as Dean plays for a while—Moonlight Sonata, the fucker. 

Cas gets plates because he doesn’t want to clean his floors and he doesn’t want pizza in his bed. He also pulls out a bottle of JD’s and puts it on the table, two glasses next to it. He’s not sure Dean drinks—or rather, he’s pretty sure that he doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean Cas won’t try to corrupt him. He wonders about the guy’s family—they’re no doubt rich, and it’s probably old money considering that Dean’s in school to be a classical musician. His family would probably flip their shit if Dean got home drunk, especially if he drove home drunk, and that idea is enough to amuse Cas until the doorbell rings.

“It looks kind of-“ Dean starts, his tone disgusted, but Cas can see the way he looks at the pizza. Dean’s not wrong—it will be _delicious_.

“Oh come on, man, it’s not that bad,” he tells Dean. “Just try a slice. Just one. I probably have an apple somewhere if you don’t like it.” Yeah, in print on a couple of his vinyl Beatles albums.

Dean takes it—and shit, there’s Cas’ focus on his hands again, careful in pulling the slice away so the cheese won’t drip—and Cas distracts himself by shoving a slice onto his own plate and then stuffing his mouth with it. He hadn’t realized how hungry he really was until he could smell the pizza.

He focuses on his own plate mostly, and by the time he’s halfway through his second slice he sees Dean looking at the table.

“You _really_ can take more pizza, I won’t mind,” he says, mouth full. “Or whiskey. It’s on the house.”

Dean still looks hesitant so Cas rolls his eyes. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” he promises, “about either the eating or the drinking.”

Dean nods, if tersely, and shoves the pizza on his plate—he so, _so_ stole Cas’ technique. He does look at the JD’s again, but when Cas opens the bottle and holds it over Dean’s glass he shakes his head. He does pour a shot for himself and sips at it before taking another bite.

“You can have some, it’s not drugged either,” he tells Dean, because he really wants to get Dean drunk. Not to get laid, or whatever, because he hates the sucker—but because of the shit his parents will give him.

The reply he gets isn’t what he was expecting. “My dad drank,” Dean tells him, quietly and without meeting his eyes. “He died of liver disease last year. I’d rather not.”

That shuts Cas up right and well, his heart pounding in his throat and his mind wondering _why_.

They quickly work their way through the entirety of the pizza, and by the time they’re done, Cas feels pleasantly full. He throws away the box and takes the plates to the kitchen block. Washing his hands, he hears Dean stand up as well, moving so he’s next to Cas.

“Where is your soap?” he asks, and Cas points at the soap for the dishes that he also uses as hand soap. 

Dean makes a little sound at the back of his throat—either at how shamefully poor Cas lives, or at how this soap will completely ruin the fatty layer on his million-dollar insured hands (that’s a rumor, by the way, but Cas will gladly believe it). Instead he asks, “Towel?”

Cas hangs it over Dean’s shoulder, careful not to touch him, and then moves back to sit on his bed. 

He grabs the acoustic nearest by—an amazing dreadnought he bought years ago, and he’d had to save up for it for ages since it’s a Martin. The sound makes up for the insane prize, and he starts to strum along with Mumford’s _Where Are You Now_. 

Dean doesn’t look at him until he opens his mouth and starts to sing. Then Dean moves over to turn off the CD player, and Cas watches him go sit back on the chair.

“Can you start from the beginning?” he asks, and Cas nods.

Up to the first verse, everything goes fine. The second starts with _When we finally sat down, your eyes were full of spite_ , and Cas can feel himself start to blush. He know the song’s about lovers, people with an entirely different kind of connection than he and Dean have—but. It embarrasses him. Instead he looks at the carpet, and then out of the window to where the sun is setting rapidly—the first streetlight starts flickering, and turns on. It’s dark soon, in winter.

He’s aware of Dean watching him, breathing quietly and steadily on the other side of the room. Cas ignores it, because used as he is to playing for an audience, strumming and singing quietly without a mike to hide behind makes him feel naked and vulnerable. Exposed. 

When it’s over, he swallows down his whiskey and represses a cough before he looks up at Dean.

Dean is gaping a little, and in the darkening room Cas can’t tell if Dean is blushing or not—but he’d bet on it. He moves his hand down the neck of his guitar, caressing it lovingly, and it draws Dean’s attention. Dean bites his lip before looking away again, and when he speaks up again, he asks, “Can I have that whiskey now?”

Cas nods.

* * *

Dean avoids him the next day, and the day after. Cas doesn’t try to read into it too much, but he thinks he might have crossed a line he didn’t know existed.

However, on Friday evening, his phone buzzes.

`10am 2morrow?` is all it says under Dean’s ID.

`my place or yours?` Cas texts back, because even though he’s not fine with doing homework over the weekends, their project is due next week Thursday and he’d really like to get it over with without failing. 

`mine` is all the reply says, so Cas has to text back `address?` . It takes ten minutes before it says, `sacramento dr 22`. It’s no surprise to Cas that it’s in the richer part of town, and he looks the route up on Google maps before checking which bus to take.

* * *

Dean’s house is incredible, and Cas stares at it for a while before walking up the driveway. There’s a long, winding path from there that leads him to the front door—the garages are on a lower level than the house itself, which has been built on the sloping end of a hillside.

His guitar, encased in its backpack, is pressed tightly along his back, the slimmer end of the casing sticking up over his head. Cas rings the bell, and it takes a little while before he sees the lights in the hallway flicker on. Then the door opens, and Dean stands in front of him, as pristinely dressed as always.

“Hey,” he says to Cas as he steps aside, “come on in.”

Cas nods curtly and makes sure to rub his soles along the doormat a few times.

“You can take them off,” Dean tells him. “We have slippers, if you’d like to wear something anyway.”

“No thanks,” Cas says as he slips off his shoes without bending over. He usually forsakes tying the laces anyway, and he leaves them by the front door, walking up the stairs behind Dean on socks. The high-pole carpet is soft and warm, and Dean’s room is at the end of a long corridor. All the walls are painted broken white, the doors all the same warm mahogany color. One door is opened, and when Cas peers in, he sees a grand piano perched in the middle of the room along with several violins hanging off the wall and a double bass standing in the corner.

Dean doesn’t stop there, though, and it’s not inexplicable once they go into his room.

He sees the entry to Dean’s walk-in closet, which separates his room from the instruments room. Cas briefly entertains the idea of a secret passage into the instruments room, or perhaps somewhere else entirely. Some sort of musical Narnia. 

There’s a piano placed against the same wall, next to the entry. Dean’s bed is a queen shoved against the opposite wall. Here, the walls are light blue, and there are a few posters of concerts he’s guessing Dean has either been to or played at. There’s a desk, too, next to the door they just came through, a brand new iMac perched on top like an altar between the sheet music that litters the rest of the wood. Beyond that is a third exit, which he’s guessing is Dean’s en-suite bathroom. Two of the walls have huge windows that show the overcast sky, the few flurries coming down.

Cas unzips his guitar bag and takes out the Martin. Dean’s rolled the desk chair—already divested of its armrests that are on the floor by the desk—over to the piano so Cas grabs his notebook too and takes his place there.

He puts it on the stand in front of Dean, on top of the sheet music, and Dean reads all of Cas’ notes.

Cas watches Dean while he reads, strumming out a few chords of the song he’d come up with over the past days. It had given him something better to do than think of Dean. 

Dean is frowning when he tells Cas, “This is pretty good.” He doesn’t sound happy to admit it, and still the compliment makes Cas want to smile so badly that he can’t really suppress the tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Instead of making a crude remark, he says, “Thanks.”

“Can you play all of it?” 

“Sure,” Cas nods. “Uh, you don’t mind that I did most of this, do you?”

Dean’s laugh is sharp and awkward, and he shakes his head. “No, I don’t. I only took this class ‘cause I need to finish it before I start forth year.”

“So, it’s not just about credits?”

“That’s an understatement,” Dean grins. “I have plenty of extracurricular credits that could fill a gap, except this gap needs a finished course. _This_ finished course. I put it off, because it’s, uh, I thought it’d be hippy stuff and I can’t write it. Guess I should thank you.”

Cas nods. “They’ll probably recognize this as mine, though.” 

Instead of answering him again, Dean looks pointedly at Cas’ guitar and Cas sighs as he gives in, taking half-glances at his notes while he plays and sings the song to Dean.

After that, Dean offers a couple of suggestions that Cas dismisses as “too schooled” or “not catchy enough” or simply “boring”. Then, with some changes to the speed of the notes, Chopin suddenly sounds more rock ‘n roll than it ever has and Cas gapes a little. Again.

“Do something like that,” he tells Dean. “Not the same, obviously, but something similar. That fits with the notes.”

Dean nods and suddenly, it works. The classical impression reminds Cas of Noah and the Whale, with their violin in the background, and he makes a mental note to make Dean listen to _The First Days of Spring_.

And because it works, it’s suddenly fun. Cas finds himself laughing when Dean messes up, and sticking out his tongue after Dean frowns at him. Dean, in return, tries to play the guitar and although he isn’t half bad, it’s—well, it’s not good either. 

“I do know how to play a violin,” he tells Cas, and that makes him even happier because it’ll give some more filling to their music.

“That’s great,” he enthuses, and then he asks, “can we start recording this now? You know, now we’re in the right flow.”

Dean nods and gets up, and Cas assumes he’ll simply drag up some microphone that goes with his computer, but instead he walks out of the door and asks, “Are you coming?”

“Where are we going?” Cas asks, picking up his guitar by its neck.

“Studio,” Dean smiles.

He’s not lying—there’s a honest to god recording studio and yes, embarrassingly enough, Cas’ jaw drops to the floor for the umpteenth time that week.

* * *

They take a break because Cas is getting hungry. It’s almost three in the afternoon, so it’s not all that surprising—except Dean is glaring at the fridge and when Cas peers in over his shoulder all he sees is healthy food.

“Well,” he says, “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather grab a burger.”

Dean nods, and then he picks up a phone that is in the kitchen and tells someone—Cas is guessing a servant—to stop by a restaurant that Cas has never heard of and pick up two cheeseburgers deluxe. 

They wait in the kitchen, and Dean asks Cas, “Can I see the notes again?”

This time, Cas refuses. “What the hell do you even do besides music?” he asks Dean, who blanks.

“Uh, it’s my hobby and I want to-“

“That’s not what I asked,” Cas interrupts him. “It’s all you ever seem to do. You never show up at parties, you snort when people come in late, you’re always getting up early to practice-“

“It’s all I have, _okay_?” Dean says, and it’s a little angry but it’s mostly sad and Cas bites his lip.

He doesn’t, however, shut up. Not this time. “Your dad’s dead, yeah, I get that. But—other people are staying in dorms or in shoeboxes of apartments and _they_ go out and have fun. And it doesn’t look like you need the money, or anything.”

“I don’t,” Dean shakes his head. “But I do have my mom to make proud.”

“Where does she live?” Cas asks, latching onto Dean’s suddenly opening up.

“She—She’s passed away as well, Cas,” he tells her. 

They are quiet for a little while, and Cas doesn’t know what to say to make the silence more comfortable. When the bell rings, a bearded old man comes walking in with two boxes.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean tells him. “This is great.”

Bobby nods, and then he steps away from the kitchen again. “Next time you call me, you better have something useful to say.” Then the stern look melts from his face, for just a second, and he continues, “I’ll be in the garage. Glad to see you made a friend, kiddo.”  
Dean nods, and Cas looks at them—because Dean’s father might be dead, but this interaction seems familiar and loving.

“My—He’s the guy who raised me,” Dean tells Cas. 

“But your dad died just a year ago,” Cas remembers, and Dean nods.

“Okay, so,” he says, taking a bite from his cheeseburger and closing his eyes, drawing out the moment for a minute. Cas is pretty sure Dean’s gathering courage for something, and he feels a little out of place now, awkward about having disliked him so much because there’s obviously a story to it that he never knew. “You can’t tell anyone about this,” he tells Cas. 

Cas nods, “Promise.”

“Ellen and Bobby raised me, their family name’s Smith. They have a daughter, Jo. She’s like my sister, except she’s not. Bobby’s a family friend of my dad’s, they were in the army together. Tech department.”

“Okay,” Cas says slowly, because this doesn’t sound like something he should keep silent.

“Uh, after they both left, Bobby got a car shop. Dad, he liked music better. Started playing in some bands, met mom at a party that he knew through a friend. She was from a rich family.”

Cas starts looking around, wondering if a single family inheritance can pay for a house like this, but Dean’s laugh draws him back to the conversation.

“No, no, it wasn’t—She was a concert musician, Cas.” Dean smiles. “She played double bass.” Cas nods, placing the instrument in the music room as having belonged to Dean’s mother. “Dad—he loved her, and they married, and somehow dad had enough talent that a record label picked up on him.”

“Have I heard of him?” Cas asks, carefully, because the man might be unknown to him and Dean might live off only the fame of his mother’s legacy. Might have been a shame to the family, because the implications that he drunk himself to death were pretty heavy.

Dean barks out another laugh. The lines around his eyes wrinkle though, and he looks fond as he says, “Cas, my parents were called Mary Campbell and John Winchester.”

Cas has vaguely heard of Mary Campbell. Anna plays the double bass as well, and he thinks she has a few records. John Winchester, however—Cas isn’t sure if he’s ever met someone who _doesn’t_ know the guy.

“The rock star,” he says, blandly.

“Yeah, that’s my father,” Dean puts down his burger. “He, uh, after mom died he went on tours all the fucking time. When he was at home, he’d drink himself into a stupor. At some point, he left me at Bobby’s so often that eventually they talked about it and had me adopted. He did support us,” Dean continues. “All of this, he bought it before he died. After he died I got a lot more money but—I know he loved me.”

“I’m sure he did,” Cas smiles gently, and Dean smiles back at him.

“Yeah, well, so,” Dean says, obviously itching to get back to work. Cas can imagine—he does have a legacy to take after. He’s also not surprised that Dean’s taken on the surname of his adoptive family, rather than the name of his own parents’.

“Let’s get back to work,” Cas agrees. 

Entering the recording room, sadly, is another pathetic moment for Cas’ facial expressions.

* * *

A couple of weeks later, they get their grade.

“Well done,” Ms. Milton tells them as she hands back the CD and the sheet music that has been market with 96/100%. 

Cas isn’t sure how they managed but he high-fives Dean and Dean smirks.

“We should celebrate,” Cas tells him. “With beer.”

“I don’t do alcohol, remember?” Dean replies smoothly and Cas laughs. He’d had some whiskey too much to drink when they’d been writing at Cas’ place, stumbling down the stairs past midnight as he’d crept into the cab that Bobby sent over. The same night, Cas had received a text that said, `just puked, m nvr drnkin agaon`.

“That’s okay,” Cas tells him. “I won’t tell Bobby or Ellen.” 

“They aren’t home this weekend,” Dean tells him. “They’re taking Jo up to her grandparents. I don’t know the people very well, and I have homework to do, so I’m staying here.”

“Alone,” Cas grins, “are you going to throw a party?”

Dean squints. “You may have corrupted me, with your fast food and alcohol, but I’m not that easily influenced.”

“I don’t think there was much to corrupt. But,” Cas feel a little embarrassed, as seems to happen more often around Dean lately and he’s _not_ going to think about why. “Why are you telling me?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to hang out, maybe?” Dean asks him, shrugging. “I mean, we could practice or whatever. “

“Are you saying that you liked playing with me?” Cas jokes, and Dean blushes a little.

“Don’t talk like that.” Now Dean’s the one to sound embarrassed. “I just happen to know that you’ve got a test on classical music soon, and I don’t know, I figured I could help you. Since you helped me, and all.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Cas tells him. “It was no problem.”

Dean shrugs. “I’d still like it. Eye for an eye, and all.”

And yeah, that’s a firm offer, and Dean is right about Cas’ test. Plus him needing help on it, because he’s just not all that interested in classical music. He knows how to dissect it, he knows how to write a review, but they’re going to have to listen and write what they hear which—which would be fine if it was something slower and something he’s used to, but it’s not.

“Okay,” he tells Dean. “Okay, I’ll come over. When?”

“Friday?” Dean asks, and Cas finds himself nodding even before he realizes that he was supposed to meet with Anna that meeting. She can wait, though.

When they finished their song in the studio, Dean had relaxed a little. He seemed at ease behind the piano but also behind the soundboard, and his hands moved equally deftly. It didn’t just improve the quality of their recording, but it also made Cas laugh a couple of times.

Dean had laughed back, and Cas finds that he really quite likes that.

* * *

Cas doesn’t end up coming over in the evening on Friday. Instead, Dean invites him to hitch a ride and he gratefully accepts it. It saves both money and time, both of which he seems to have too little of lately.

Even though Cas had only seen Bobby the last time he was here, even knowing that Ellen and Jo were supposed to be around somewhere made the house seem fuller, somehow. Now they’re alone, most of the lights are off and all the doors are closed. It’s almost scarily silent, but Dean doesn’t seem bothered by it. Cas wonders how often he’s home alone; if he, perhaps, prefers it to the company of his family. 

Dean shows him the sheet music, talking to Cas about the styles of different composers. He asks Cas if he can at least recognize them, and Cas nods dumbly—he knows the songs.

“I’m just not really good with sheet music,” he confesses, and Dean looks at him a little oddly.  
“You need it to play though, don’t you?” 

Cas shrugs, because he doesn’t. Not really. “I play by ear.”

Dean whistles, grinning. “Absolute pitch, huh?” and Cas nods. 

“It’s something that runs in my family,” he shrugs. “I—my father gave me a guitar when I was four of five.” The memory makes him smile. His father had seen him pick up Anna’s violin, only he’d held it in front of him like it was a guitar.

He doesn’t have his guitar with him now, but Dean had assured him that he probably had one or two lying around.

For dinner, they have deep-frozen pizzas that Cas helps Dean heat in the oven.

“You really are an awful influence, Cas,” Dean laughs as he watches the pizzas go round and round on their plateaus.

Cas shrugs. “It’s been said before. Do you care?”

Dean shakes his head, but after a slight hesitation, he grabs a salad from the fridge anyway. “I do need something healthy too, though.”

* * *

After dinner, they go into the instruments room.

The wall Cas hadn’t been able to see earlier has a bass guitar, a few acoustic six-strings and a twelve-string, and a Fender Strat that he recognizes as John Winchester’s. 

“Are these all your father’s?” he asks Dean, and Dean shakes his head.

“No, most of them are mine. Presents to me, but, yeah. I don’t play. Just pick whichever you like.”

Cas nods and goes straight for the only Martin & Co. he sees. Its weight is familiar in his hands and when he looks at Dean, he finds him looking and smiling.

“Do you want to play here?” Cas asks him and Dean shakes his head.

“I prefer my own room,” he tells Cas. “I don’t know, this room feels kind of—“ he trails off but Cas knows what he means.

“It’s a bit impersonal,” he nods. 

Dean closes the curtains, heavy material that keeps out the cold of the winter. Cas is a little surprised there is not an open hearth in the room, but at the same time, this feels more like Dean. There is a television hanging off the wall next to the piano that he hadn’t noticed before, and with the guitar still in one hand he crouches down to see which movies he likes.

“You have an awful taste in movies,” he tells Dean. “These are all _old_.”

“Classics,” Dean scoffs, picking up a DVD-copy of _The Shining_. It looks worn, it’s probably well-watched and well-loved. “Your own taste is probably at least equally abysmal.”

Cas shrugs, because it’s not, but he’s not going to argue about that. 

Instead he grabs the desk chair and sits beside the piano. “I just want to jam,” he tells Dean.

All goes well for about thirty minutes—maybe forty-five. Dean is playing the piano, and Cas watches until he decides to join in. He closes his eyes when the music starts to mix, entwine, when Dean responds to Cas’ guitar or the other way around. It fills him with love and it’s this that he is always looking for in music. He wishes that there were a way to replicate this feeling—if there was a drug that did it, he’d be an addict. 

Then Dean messes it up by stopping and turning to Cas. “Can you teach me?”

“Why would you want to learn guitar?” Cas smiles at him, still filled with happiness.

Dean shrugs, looking a little skittish. “It’s what my dad did,” he says. “I know I can play a little but, I don’t know. I like some of the songs you play.”

“Which do you like best?” Cas asks, but he thinks better of it. “No, don’t say. I’m going to think of something that you’ll probably like. You should probably get out another guitar though.”

“Can’t you just show me on that one?” Dean asks, and Cas’ stomach flutters a little. He can, but it’s going to involve a lot of touching—except it seems strange to assume Dean isn’t aware of that.

“Okay,” Cas nods, and when Dean shoves the guitar bench aside—oh dear god, oh god, he wants Cas to sit next to him. He can do that. He mightn’t hate Dean anymore, but he can do this. It’s no problem.

Dean is warm, pressed to his side, and Cas guides him through a couple of easy chords. Dean picks up on them easily, and Cas isn’t surprised. Dean’s probably one of those people who could play any instrument they put their mind to, albeit with a little effort. For now, he’s sticking to a main sequence of C – G – C – G and when Dean’s got that, he adds the D/G variation and E minor. 

“Which song is this?” he asks and Cas huffs out a laugh.

“You don’t know it.”

“What’s it called?” And Dean’s face is really close to him, and Cas doesn’t really want to say but his brain doesn’t seem to function properly; his heart is beating too fast and his hands are sweaty.

“Give A Little Love.” 

Dean laughs again, warmly, and for a second Cas thinks he’s going to kiss him so he slides off the bench and walks towards the iMac, willing the flush to fade from his face and his heart to calm down. 

“I should probably let you hear it first,” he says. Dean nods, putting down the guitar next to his piano and coming over to unlock the computer for him.

“It’s on Youtube, right?”

“Yeah,” Cas tells him. “Noah and the Whale, that’s the band.”

Dean snorts a little when Noah starts singing, but he listens to the song until it ends. “It’s—I’m not sure if I like the singer’s voice,” he tells Cas.

“That’s okay,” he replies. 

“Other than that it’s nice. But, uh, I didn’t hear a lot of guitar?” Dean frowns. “I mean, yeah.”

“You can play it but you need a rhythm,” Cas shrugs. 

“You should really listen to-“ Dean says then, and he starts looking for something else.

* * *

An hour later, they are both laughing. Currently, they are watching a video of cats stealing dogs’ beds, but before this they’ve already watched babies and birds and a few Vine compilations.

Cas’ stomach is aching with laughter as he stands next to Dean, who is sitting on the desk chair.

“Okay,” Cas tries to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Okay, we should probably get back to our music-“ he starts, looking over his shoulder, and when Dean’s turned around he quickly grabs the mouse and clicks on the link to a video he’s been wanting to show Dean the past fifteen minutes, but Dean hadn’t let him.

“Hey!” Dean shouts, trying to grab back the wireless device. Cas grabs it and pulls his hand away, stumbling backwards as Dean is getting up and falling over his own legs. 

It’s a little difficult to walk while he is still in fits, but he still manages to get halfway through the room before Dean manages to grab him. Cas loses his balance and he falls down, but at least he drags Dean with them, the both of them ending up in a pile of limbs on the floor.

Even then, Dean is trying to wrestle the mouse from Cas’ hands, a look of fierce determination on his face. Cas is sweating as he holds his hands up, but he doesn’t care about smelling nasty ‘cause he can see drops pearling on Dean’s face as well.

Dean’s face, which is suddenly really close to his own again. Cas swallows, his fingers relaxing around the mouse but Dean doesn’t attempt to get at it anymore. Instead he’s staring down at Cas, even when Cas knows that although it’s not impossible for him to have felt how Cas is responding to the wrestling, it’s improbable.

“Dean-“ he starts, because he’s not sure if he wants this. Hell, Cas _likes_ Dean, but this feels all too much like the set-up to an ill-advised one-night-stand. 

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, licking his lips, and with that all Cas’ resolve is gone. 

He spreads his legs a little, letting Dean’s thigh slots between them. He sees the moment in which Dean realizes that Cas is half-hard: his eyes widen and flicker down to Cas’ mouth.

Then he’s leaning in and Cas can’t help but open his lips, welcoming Dean’s mouth against his own. His stomach is doing somersaults inside of him, but all he can focus on is the slip and slide of Dean’s tongue against his own. The moment that Dean had opened up about his family, had told Cas something so personal, private, he’d started to look at him in a different light. And it’s insane, but he’s wanted this, he’s dreamt about this and it’s crazy to have it—it’s driving him crazy. 

When Dean wants to push himself up, Cas keeps him down with a hand pressing against the back of Dean’s head. He slips his other hand under Dean’s shirt and bucks his hips up, a little, drawing a moan from Dean. He can feel the place Dean’s hard now, too, firm against his thigh.

He doesn’t let Dean up for another few minutes though, kissing him like he needs him like breath. Maybe it’s true, too. Dean knows what he’s doing, his hips rocking against Cas’ as he alters slow and shallow kisses with deep and frantic ones. Cas can feel Dean’s hand pressed against his side, sweating against the slither of skin where his shirt has rucked up in all the commotion.

“Dean,” he pants when they finally break the kiss, and Dean nods, looking about ready to dive back in again, but instead he sits back on his heels and rakes a trembling hand through his hair.

“Just so you know,” he tells Cas, smiling bashfully, “I didn’t ask you over for this.”

“What do you mean by _this_?” Cas blurts out, pushing himself up again and he needs to know, needs to ask. “I mean. Do you want just this,” and he licks his lips, “or-“ and spreads his legs.

Dean blushes at that, spreading his own legs a little as well and looking self-conscious as he presses his palm to the bulge in his jeans. 

When he stands up and extends a hand to Cas. “I kind of,” he says, stepping in, and Cas can smell him, he’s so close. “This is probably the worst moment to confess this,” he tells Cas’ neck, his breath ghosting hotly across his skin, “but I’ve kind of wanted this-“ and he grabs Cas’ ass, Jesus, pulls their hips together, “since I saw you.”

“Oh fuck,” Cas groans, throwing his head back to give Dean more space. The hot tongue against his skin makes him feel feverish, and he needs to get rid of his clothes. Preferably ASAP.

“And you drove me mad, and I was so angry about it,” Dean is panting a little, and then Cas finds himself getting pushed backwards in the direction of the wall—which, okay, that is far too hot.

“You drove _me_ mad,” Cas tells him, “with that stick up your ass and everyone gushing about you, and your resentful snorts whenever I would come into class late.”

“All an act,” Dean says, and then Cas feels his teeth against his skin and he’s pretty sure his legs are buckling.

“What do you want?” he manages to ask, his back thudding against the wall. He’s between the piano and wardrobe, his legs spread as Dean is slowly pushing up against him. 

“Fuck me,” Dean whispers in his ear, and that’s so _not_ what Cas expected to hear but it makes his dick throb and his head a little woozy. 

“You ever-“ he asks, and his voice is rough which sends a shiver through Dean that Cas can feel.

Dean nods, his face buried in Cas ‘neck. “Yeah, while ago. And I have toys.”

Cas groans at that, imagining Dean fucking himself with a dildo, and it’s really fucking difficult to keep a clear mind. “You have a condom? Lube?”

Dean nods again and then he steps away from Cas and walks into his wardrobe. That figures, Cas snorts to himself and he waits, vaguely trembling, still leaning with his back against the wall.

“Why haven’t you moved to the bed?” Dean asks when he steps back out, and, oh. Right.

Except.

“You a fan of beds?” he teases, and Dean blushes when Cas turns around to look at the piano. “I’m a fan of pianos, I think.”

“You really-“ Dean starts, and Cas nods. Fucking Dean over his own piano, _fuck_. It’s going to be the death of him but he wants it. Wants the memory.

Dean’s mouth is on his again, and Cas twists them around so it’s Dean who is pushed up against the piano. The keys that his legs bump against make a horrible noise, but Cas doesn’t care as he tries to push off Dean’s shirt. Dean puts the condom and tube of lube on top of the piano and then allows Cas to undress him.

They are naked in no time, clothes tossed to their sides as Dean braces himself against the piano. His back is strong and Cas kisses his neck, licking the smattering of freckles over his shoulders while he pushes his fingers between Dean’s legs. 

He’s hot between his ass cheeks, and his hole is tensing under Cas’ touch. His fingers are still dry but he rubs the sensitive skin anyway and Dean moans, pushing back into the touch.

Cas grabs the tube and pops it open, pouring a general amount of lube onto his fingers before he pushes his fingers against Dean’s ass again, this time sliding one of them into the pucker. Dean shivers and his legs are shaking. Cas curls his other hand around Dean’s erection, stroking him slowly and in time with his finger.

“I can take more,” Dean tells him, his voice broken and needy, and Cas normally isn’t one to rush things but he’s pretty sure that Dean _can_ and Cas _needs_.

He works up to two and then three fingers, stretching Dean and making him shiver. Then he slips them out and pushes himself flush against Dean’s body, so Dean can feel his rock-hard and leaking erection. They both groan and Cas grabs the condom, rips the foil and rolls it on with a little difficulty—his hands are shaking and all he can think is, _Yes_.

He spreads more lube over his hard-on before lining up with Dean and slowly pushing in. Dean’s keeping his legs spread and his fingers are curled over the top of the piano, his knuckles white. He moans quietly as Cas bottoms out, and Cas takes a little while getting Dean to full hardness again.

“How do you like it?” he asks Dean, rocking his hips a little.

“Fast,” Dean gasps, pushing back against him and squeezing his muscles around Cas. “Just, fuck me hard.”

“Shit,” Cas groans, biting down on Dean’s shoulder as he pulls out and then thrusts in as fast as he can. It shakes Dean’s body and they moan in unison again.

Cas picks up his rhythm and Dean takes it, now leaning his head against his forearm, braced against the dark wood. One of his hands is on Dean’s hip, steadying both of them, and he keeps his other fisted around Dean’s dick, still only stroking him slowly because he wants this to last for both of them.

Or well, last longer than a few seconds, because to aim for a long fuck is too optimistic. Cas feels wound tight already, and he’s been on the verge of coming ever since he pushed into Dean for the first time.

He still gives all he’s got, though, and he mutters, “I’m gonna-“ before his hips lock up. He spills into the condom, come hot as it’s pressed against the head, and squeezes Dean’s erection. Dean’s hips are making stuttering movements and it’s a little too much for Cas to handle so he slides out, making sure that the condom stays on.

Then he stands up behind Dean again, kissing his ear and the soft skin behind, the sharp hook of his jaw under his ear, and jerks him off fast. He pushes his free hand’s palm against Dean’s balls and rolls them against his body, and Dean’s hands are frantically scrambling at the lid that goes over the piano keys, slamming it closed just in time because then he’s coming, shooting over the dark wood with a shout.

Cas strokes him through it, taking the brunt of Dean’s weight when he leans back, his hips still weakly pushing forwards as he spills the last drops.

They stand like that for a little while, Dean braced in Cas’ arms, before Dean shivers and gets up on his own.

“Well,” he says, looking down at his piano.

“Yeah,” Cas snorts. “Sorry about that.”

Dean is silent for a second and then he laughs. “Yeah, I somehow have problems believing that.”

When he turns around, he kisses Cas once before saying, “D’you wanna get cleaned up?” 

“Will you, eh, be joining me?” Cas asks, stepping closer to Dean.

Dean’s eyes twinkle as he nods.

**Author's Note:**

> There will most likely be an epilogue, I'm just not sure when...
> 
>  **Songs/albums mentioned and used (chronologically):**  
> [Give A Little Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y0abYKwRWlU) \- Noah and the Whale  
>  _Led Zeppelin IV_ \- Led Zeppelin  
> [Moonlight Sonata](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Tr0otuiQuU) \- Beethoven  
> [Where Are You Now](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AivmKvkuF58) \- Mumford & Sons  
> [The First Days Of Spring _(album)_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jNEdHfCrcnE) \- Noah and the Whale  
> []()
> 
> A guitar model similar to the ones Cas prefers: a [Martin & Co. Dreadnought guitar](http://www.martinguitar.com/model/item/3275-dcpa5.html).  
> A piano model similar to the one Dean keeps in his room: [this kinky fucker](http://www.vergaelen.net/images/types_of_pianos2.jpg).


End file.
